


Touch

by AFirebringer



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Danarius (Dragon Age) Being an Asshole, F/M, Feelings, Fenris (Dragon Age) Needs a Hug, Fenris character study, Grief/Mourning, Hawke Needs a Hug, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Not beta read but I'd be extremely grateful for any help/critique/etc!, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, essentially Fenris processing his trauma and trying to let go, everything between him and Hawke is fully consensual though I promise, implied PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:20:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27914428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AFirebringer/pseuds/AFirebringer
Summary: His body has always been but a tool. His master's to command, not his own. But Hawke, instead of claiming it all to herself, keeps giving it back to him.
Relationships: Fenris/Female Hawke, Fenris/Hawke (Dragon Age)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

His body has always been but a tool.  
A display of his master's power to be flaunted in front of his guests, meant to impress and scare.  
A weapon, quick and efficient, unsheathed only when someone needed to be disposed of — and kept on a tight leash at all the other times.  
A plaything for late nights, to grab and squeeze and get pleasure from.

His skin has only known Danarius’s fingers, cold and clammy and ruthless. His touch has always been just shy of unbearable, not quite torture, but dangerously close to it. A warning of what would come if he refused.  
He never could.  
He never did.

That is why he reels back when Hawke touches him for the first time. 

Her fingers, he realizes a second too late, were warm and gentle on his rib, where he’d gotten clawed at in the midst of battle, just minutes ago. The wound isn’t deep, but it stings and can get nasty if left untreated.  
He’s not sure what to do with himself after this, so he looks at her, waiting for something to fill the silence stretched out between them.

She smiles at him then, all dimples and glint in the eyes, and it’s way harder to avert his gaze than it should be.

“Sorry. I just wanted to make sure that most of your blood stays inside. This sand is beautiful, and red would clash with the color scheme too much. Also,” she adds, as if an afterthought, “I’d really prefer you not bleeding out to death on me here, to be honest.”

No choice, then, but to acquiesce; that’s what he tells himself, at least. 

He tries to stand as still as possible, but Hawke still jokes about dragging him to Anders if he wouldn’t “stop fidgeting and let her take care of the cut already”. He grumbles in response, Aveline bandages up Merrill, and they continue on to Kirkwall.

For the remainder of the day he wills himself not to feel the ghost of her touch on his skin and fails miserably.

*  
Hawke is, thankfully, not a mage. But everything else about her is so confusing that he sometimes wishes she would be, just so he could maybe make up his mind about her at last.

She’s all sparkly laugh and giggles until there’s a threat to any of her numerous friends, or women, or elves, or any other vulnerable person who’d have trouble defending themselves. The shift in her expression is almost imperceptible — and then all hell breaks loose.

He keeps telling himself he repays her by always having her back in battle, but in reality it’s the other way around. She’s there whenever someone tries to flank him, movements fluid and graceful, and her smile is as sharp as her daggers are. He knocks two more men off their feet, and she crashes onto one, blades first. 

Killing is his forte, there is no denying that. Which seems the most sensible explanation as to why she keeps knocking on his door and inviting him along on more and more of her crazy journeys. 

But all the smiling on top of that makes the corners of his own mouth twitch in response and a chuckle form in his throat, one he is not always capable of suppressing. Hawke is never overtly flirting with him, always smoothing the edges of her words with a laugh, always ready with a joke to dispel any and all uneasiness. He would even chalk it up to her just being friendly like she is with Aveline, or Isabela, or Varric, but— 

But whenever it’s him, her gaze lingers that much longer, she is somehow standing that much closer, and keeping himself from responding in kind is getting that much harder with each passing week.

He reaches for memories of her sometimes before falling asleep. 

Her laugh at something Varric said, bright and unrestrained, her shoulder bumping his.

Her dance with the daggers around Isabela, seemingly effortless but still with all the potential to be deadly. A few minutes later Isabela all but purrs “You know, Hawke, you’re good. Should we maybe duel some more sometime?” Hawke laughs the obvious suggestion away, and Fenris finds himself maybe a little more pleased than he should.

Her fingers on his scrapes and bruises, warm and careful, “because I get the impression you’d rather get them infected than ask Anders for help, and we simply can’t have that, Fenris”. And maybe he’s grumbled about the healer’s attitude more frequently than he should, but the fact that she’s touching him more often than she probably would’ve otherwise is but a pleasant side effect. Nothing more.

And since when does he find any kind of skin-to-skin contact _pleasant?_

Venhedis.

This woman will be the death of him.

*  
Hadriana’s heart feels no different from the others in his palm, soft and vulnerable and _pathetic_ , and she really should’ve known better than beg him for mercy after years of giving none.

Fury boils in his veins, pure, unadulterated, blinding, and when Hawke tries to joke her way around the tension he snaps, letting his anger spill into words for the first time in all these years, and he can’t bear the look of naked surprise on her face.

So he flees.

Only his treacherous feet bring him to her doorstep instead.

*  
“You don’t need to leave, Fenris,” says Hawke, and her voice is uncharacteristically soft.

*  
Leaving is the hardest thing he’s ever done.


	2. Chapter 2

“You know, Hawke,” Isabela says just within his earshot, “my offer still stands.”

“What, exploring hidden depths? Had I known you were so eager, I would’ve taken you on the expedition.”

Fenris awaits for a seductive purr, or a laugh, a usual effortless retort, something, anything. 

“Oh Hawke,” Isabela sighs instead, and there’s more pity in her tone than disappointment. 

For the rest of the day, Fenris gets stuck somewhere between relief and annoyance, and it’s taking him most of his willpower to not surrender to bone-deep longing instead.

*  
His body has always been but a tool, but Hawke was the one to give herself to him, warm and slick and wonderful, trusting him with the most intimate parts of herself. Her body, the halo of her hair, spread across the red silk of the sheets — almost-white silk of her skin under his fingertips — uneven, ragged breaths — whimpering, and the hands, her hands, pulling him close, asking instead of ordering— 

And he caved, of course he caved— 

She felt liberating and not choking like he was used to, and he was reveling, celebrating, finally letting the sensations rush in through his chest and swallow him whole— 

And then the dreams came. 

*  
Hawke’s touch is scarce and brief these days. No bandaging his wounds anymore; no sitting next to him at the band’s outings at the Hanged Man; no casual brushing of her fingertips against his shoulder or elbow when she needs to get his attention.

He never thought he’d miss it this much. He never thought he’d miss _her_ this much, especially given that the reading lessons haven’t ceased and she still claims to need him by her side almost every time a potential threat comes up — which, knowing Hawke, is unsurprisingly often.

He catches her sneaking glances sometimes, usually directed at the flash of red on his wrist, the Amell crest on his hip, — what little of her he’s allowed himself to keep. He can never tell what exactly she’s thinking in those brief moments, but somehow it’s enough to let himself hold onto the paraphernalia he knows he has no right to.

On the even rarer occasions he’s being earnest with himself, he knows he doesn’t want to let go, either. He lets the treacherous thought linger for a few moments and resolves to push Hawke away — for what feels like the hundredth time.

But he never does. And he keeps tying the red ribbon around his wrist each time he’s getting dressed. It isn’t sufficient, it can never replace the warmth and gentleness of Hawke’s skin on his, but it’s all he has. He’d better make peace with it.

*  
The next time Hawke's facade shatters, her voice is shaking like she’s barely holding back tears. Which in itself is ridiculous, Hawke never cries, she's survived horrible things and there's nothing that could possibly destroy her— 

But she sounds desperate, broken almost, and in his chest the air is so heavy he can hardly breathe. 

She needs him, he tells himself, and he keeps his stride steady and his swings deadly, and when the time comes, he's happy to corner the one guilty of all this — and _of course_ it’s a mage — so that Hawke can land the killing blow.

It's the least he can do.  
(It's all he can do.)

He almost doesn’t stop by her house, and when his feet bring him over the threshold, he waits for her to show him the door.

She lets him stay, and time freezes around them. 

“Carver,” she mutters at one point, barely above a whisper. “Mother. I failed them both.”

 _You did all you could at the moment_ , he could say. But sometimes that’s not enough. He knows that just as well as she does.  
She leans into him. He doesn’t move away.

There are no tears; hardly any words. Bodahn doesn’t disturb them, and Hawke falls asleep at the crack of dawn, curling around him.  
He fetches a sheet to cover her, as gently as he can. Averts his eyes.  
Makes himself leave.

She'd be better off not needing him. But while she does, he shall give all he can offer.

*  
“Dear Hawke”, she reads aloud, “I have the relic, and I’m gone.”  
Then there’s a pause. 

The look on Hawke's face, bitter and lost, lights Fenris's chest up with white-hot anger, makes him want to reach through Isabela's chest and _squeeze_. Because no one does that to Hawke. Not on his watch.

It’s only after those rage-induced, blinding seconds that he remembers that he has no right to. 

He has done the same thing to her, after all.

*  
Hawke is the Champion. Has been for months now.

Forgetting the abject despair in her eyes is easier than it should have been; so when she stops showing up for a few days, he thinks nothing of it. Maybe she’s finally starting to move on. As she should.

It’s Aveline, not Hawke, who knocks on his door. 

“Hawke won’t come out or read letters,” she states without greeting. “Merrill had tried to come, and she turned her away via Bodahn. Anders, too. Varric. Everyone, in fact, including me.”

At first he’s unsure why she is telling him this.  
Then unease starts stirring in his chest; he remembers another hot and humid summer day, the mad, almost feverish chase through the foundry. The way Hawke’s fingers, usually deft and elegant, seemed to utterly betray her when she tried to open the trapdoor.  
The sickening smell, and then... 

“Oh,” he breathes out, not quite trusting his voice yet.

“Yes. Varric suggested it’s your turn now.”

 _I’m not sure I have confidence in your abilities to do this_ , her eyes say.

 _Me neither_ , he tries to convey with his.

The _you’re the best option now_ hangs between them, clear enough to not need to be spoken out loud.

Without another word, he walks past Aveline and heads towards the too-familiar door.

*  
Hawke is still and pale as a sheet.  
He has never been less sure he can be of help, but he takes a step forward. Then another.

“I can’t believe it’s been a year.”

Her voice is too soft, too hoarse, like she had been screaming for hours on end. For all he knows, maybe she had.

“I keep thinking— keep thinking that I will go down the stairs, and she’ll be there, by the fireplace, and she’ll look at me and tell me to— to—”

It’s then when she finally breaks down crying. It has been a year, and he still doesn’t know what to say, but he’s holding her and rubbing small circles into her back.

It seems to be enough, for now. 

*  
It has been two years, and he remembers to come this time.  
They share wine and pastries in silence, and a small tentative smile finds its way on both their lips. 

He definitely should not be thinking of the color slowly creeping onto her cheeks (probably from the wine) and the way she almost reaches out to cover his fingers with hers.  
For a second, he wants it more than anything in the world — and then longing gives way to resentment, and the Orlesian-inspired eclair suddenly tastes like sand.

“I should probably go,” he manages. “I apologize.”

Hawke doesn’t tell him not to.

*  
It has been three years, and Hawke is complaining about Meredith and Orsino remaining at each other’s throats and growing less and less quiet about it. There’s a glint in her eye and her tone is light, and it’s almost like she doesn’t remember.

But he sees her white-knuckled grip on the table, and he knows better.

They are past sharing silence about it, though.  
He wishes it didn’t sadden him.


	3. Chapter 3

It has been more than three years, but the several precious hours he shared with Hawke, laid bare before each other, are still fresh in his mind. She trusted him more than anyone else, and he was the one to throw it all away.

He had no right to occupy any amount of space in her heart, but his own was filled to the brim with her.

It goes like this: the simpler the truth, the harder it usually is for him to grasp.

That one is by far the hardest.

*  
The meeting with his sister is indeed a trap. But even Hawke is late to figure that out; her shout comes just seconds before the voice he wishes he’d forgotten fills his ears whole.

Oh, how well he knows this voice. It drips honey and venom, it’s a velvet glove concealing the iron fist, and all of a sudden the last six years are wiped away, and he’s back in the endless halls, back in the shackles, back to being inanimate, controlled, subdued.

His markings are starting to burn. His nerves are scraped raw.  
Danarius instantly knows where to hit him for it to hurt the most. Always has.  
Hawke is right beside him, furious and ready to take on whatever comes next. For him.  
And he cannot let Danarius smear the one precious night in his life, reduce it to something _filthy_ and _repulsive_ and— 

It’s his turn to be ruthless now.  
After all, he’s got nothing more to lose.

*   
When Fenris wakes up, there’s something right next to him. Something warm and fleshy, pressing his back to the wall and caging him in from the front, and he has to break free, he has to— 

His human shackles mutter something in a familiar voice, and he freezes in place. Finally opens his eyes to a shock of black hair almost tickling his nose. 

It’s Hawke. 

Her ankles are crossed with his, and she snuggles closer to his chest in her sleep, looking so peaceful and content. Something clutches in his chest. He’d never thought he would get to see Hawke like this, not on guard, not putting on a show for the world.

Fenris puts an arm around her waist. Times his breaths so that their chests rise and fall in unison.

Closes his eyes and promptly falls back asleep.

*  
His body has never truly been his own, not within his recollection. First, a tool. Then, a weapon.

But Hawke, instead of claiming it all to herself, for all this time has been giving it back to him.

He knows now how his skin can sing under her exploring touch, leisurely and tender. And there’s no reason to run anymore, no reason to let go. Hawke is the only thing that ties him to Kirkwall, and, peculiarly, he’s perfectly content with that.

Some might even venture so far as to call him happy.   
Deep inside, he doesn’t think he would object that much.


End file.
